This kid's going to therapy

The true story of when I first started creative writing but my teacher really did not appreciate my writing.

In second grade I switch to a new school because I was bullied a lot in my old school. My new teacher, let's call her Ms. Apple, was the kind of teacher who loved to let kids express themselves in creative ways. Due to the fact that in my earlier years I was bullied, I usually stuck to being quiet and soft spoken so I rarely like to talk in front of the class. This also lead to me not wanting to express myself in front of other people

This fact was accepted for the most part. But Ms. Apple thought it would be a good idea to create an environment where everyone felt welcome and had a chance to share. So she started us all on creative writing and often give us a picture prompt or a genre to write about. Letting whoever wanted to read their story out loud in front of the class do so and earn a gold star. 

Usually everyone read their stories and it normally extended out into the next day when we had free time. It took a few weeks but I finally worked up the courage to decide that I would read the next story I wrote in front of the class. With my luck, the day I decide to read my work was the day Ms. Apple assigned us to write a love story. 

That was the day Ms. Apple, and everyone else, found out that I was a little s**t. Oops. 

My love story was about a tomato named Tammy and a watermelon named Mel who grew in the same garden and who fell in love. One day, Mel wanted to show Tammy how much he loved her so he rolled over to hug her....and proceeded to accidently squished her. The pumpkin police (pretty sure I was doing some good acid as a kid) saw Mel just murdered Tammy and went after him. Mel rolled for his life until suddenly, out of no where, the hands of their God plucked him from the ground and carried him away. He was washed and dried, making him feel safe and happy. Mel felt like he could be forgiven for killing the love of his life. But then he felt a sharp pain. 


Somehow, I wrote about how Mel then got chopped up and served at a backyard picnic and BBQ.

Ms. Apple did not find my writing amusing but the other kids did and they even complemented me on my writing because some of them hated fruit. A few even asked me to write a story of their most hated vegetables being cut up and dying. 

Ms. Apple informed me that even though my story was unlike anything she ever heard of, it didn't make it alright to read to other kids and took my notebook away to show my mom, whom was called to meet with Ms. Apple later that day. When my mom did come in, Ms. Apple calmly explained what happened and showed her what I wrote in my notebook. 

My mother looked at me then Ms. Apple and laughed, saying she saw nothing wrong with this. I was just a child and if anything else like this happened again, then maybe she'd consider being worried.

Two weeks later my mom was called in again for a similar reason. Turns out that news of this story spread to some other classes of first, second and third graders who all found me at recess and asked if I could write stories like that for them. 

So being the person I am, I charged everyone who wanted a story about 25 cent and told them to write their class room number, grade, and name down in my new notebook with the food they wanted. This small business took off fairly quickly and I was getting a few requests a day done and handed out. 

So that started my first book series, "Tales from the garden and grocery shelves'. It was a hit.....right up until Ms. Apple found out I had continue my stories of murdered fruits and extended to all food and drink. So again, there I was two weeks later after my first story with my mom next to me. 

But my mother still laughed and shrugged it off. "Who says she can't write about this? You cut up food all the time and no one's checking your mental wellbeing, are they?" My mother argued. 

"Yes but I don't name my food and put it in situations that only people are in." Ms. Apple explained lamely. 

"So you're telling me that you know of someone who jumped off a shelf to find a missing person only to hit the ground and have their body break open?" Replied my mom, referring to a short story I wrote about a carton on milk who wants to help find a missing boy who's face is on his carton. Jumping off his shelf, which is too high off the ground, and explodes on impact.  

My mom grabbed my hand and lead me out of the room, telling my teacher she thought of this as a waste of her time and how she planned to tell the principal that I was jump coming out of my shell. To which Ms. Apple replied, "This kid's going to therapy!" 

My most popular stories are still framed in the principal's office to this day.

Author's Note

Wrote this at 3am so please excuse the grammar or spelling, please and thank you.